Patricia's eyes flashed. "I'm not 'little girl.' I'm Patricia Kirby!"
"Pa-tri-cia Kir-by! Upon my word!"
Patricia's bare curls were blown and tangled; her face, hot and dusty; her blue gingham frock, fresh that morning, between water and dust was a sight to behold. She bore very little resemblance to the Patricia Kirby Miss Jane was accustomed to see in church on Sunday, or sometimes driving about with Dr. Kirby.
"Whatever are you doing alone so far from home, Patricia?" Miss Susan asked, coming up. The cat had retired to the shelter of a tall tree, from a branch of which she glared down on her pursuer, who lay hot and panting on the ground below.
Patricia pointed to the dog. "Why, I came on purpose to bring you him—for a present, you know."
Miss Jane gasped.
"He's a very nice dog," Patricia went on. "I'd love to keep him for myself; only Aunt Julia—Aunt Julia seemed to think one dog was enough. I don't think Aunt Julia is particularly—enthusiastic, about dogs. You would like him, wouldn't you?"
Not dust, heat, nor weariness could hide the persuasive charm of Patricia's quick upward smile.
Before that smile Miss Jane, who was very soft-hearted, wavered; but Miss Susan shook her head resolutely. "Augusta would never hear of it for one moment!"
"Is Augusta your cook?" Patricia asked. Cooks were that way sometimes; even Sarah had her moments of revolt—so far as Patricia was concerned.